


On The Head of a Pin

by SneakyBunyip



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is the Center of Attention, Crowley is A Sssseething Ssssnake, Dancing, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyBunyip/pseuds/SneakyBunyip
Summary: Crowley has no idea why Aziraphale dragged him to this discreet gentlemen's club, but what he does know is that he doesn't like the attention the five other dancers are giving his angel.





	On The Head of a Pin

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful Artwork Done by [FesteringSilence](http://FesteringSilence.tumblr.com/)  


There was nowhere to lurk in the small ballroom of the discreet gentlemen’s club in Portland Place.

Not a single clandestine corner; not a long shadow to be seen; nowhere that Crowley didn’t stand out like a smudge of ash on an alabaster hearth. 

Everything was too white, too glaring, and too full of extravagant men in garish dress.

Why precisely Aziraphale insisted Crowley come to this ridiculous club with him was beyond the demon’s understanding. 

This wasn’t his style, certainly not his scene, and the music. Ugh, the music. He’d rather listen to sheep bleating through a foghorn.

So why _ was _ he here? He could have easily said no. Easily. It’s one syllable, takes no time at all, and it’s one of his favorite words to say.

Why, Anthony J. Crowley?!

_ Because, _ Crowley thought sourly, _ Trying to say no to my angel is as impossible as sauntering back up to heaven without being noticed. _

While Crowley sulked near the phonograph screeching out the next concerto, Aziraphale was having a grand time. 

There were five dancers in total, four of which were humans in long-tail tuxedos of varying degree of fancy. Crowley, himself, wore a blacker-than-pitch pinstripe suit, with a gold chain and loose-fitting pants. It was an outfit he designed himself and was hoping in the next decade or two it would develop into a raging trend. He almost felt underdressed among the other men if not for the angel who stood out amongst them all in his usual cream and tan three-piece suit, complete with a terrible tartan cravat at his throat.

The gentlemen jumped and kicked and swung each other around to the jaunty tune, looking more like demons trying to hopscotch through a holy church than actual dancers with any skill.

On occasion, Aziraphale’s sunshine smile (which Crowley wondered if it was the real source of light in the brightly lit room) looked to the demon as if to check if he was still present.

Crowley was. _ Of course _ he was. Where else would he be? 

Also on occasion, there would be a small, obvious gap on the dance floor where a person of perhaps Crowley’s shape and size would fit perfectly. And on each occasion, Aziraphale would do a little pirouette, point to the space and point to Crowley.

All the while beaming his most endearing of grins.

_ Cute... _

Aziraphale _ was _ cute. That had been obvious the moment Crowley slithered up to meet him atop the Eastern Gate. The flustered Guardian who gave away his flaming sword to fruit-snacking humans out of sheer chivalry, then had the audacity to fret about doing the right thing.

That was cute, yes, but it was not that endearing quality that attracted the demon to the angel.

Aziraphale used his cuteness as a weapon, as surely as Adam used the flaming sword, Aziraphale knew precisely how to wield his power over Crowley to ensure a swift defeat.

Crowley had defied Heaven.

Crowley had tapped danced around Hell.

But Aziraphale’s sparkling blue eyes, his small pouty lips, and the eternal sunshine that followed him wherever he went? It slayed Crowley every time.

That in itself made Aziraphale a bit of a bastard.

It would be the second time in Eternity that Crowley Fell, just this time it was for an angel.

_ Go figure... _

“Well done, Mr. Fell!” praised a dashing, bearded gentleman who linked arms with Aziraphale.

“Your prancing is sublime,” marveled a smooth-cheeked fop who joined Aziraphale on his left, arms also linked.

Behind small black spectacles, a pair of yellow snake-eyes enlarged, and a slight snarl exposed incisors a bit too large for humans, but not quite large enough for a serpent.

_ Who the Heaven do these blokes think they are? _ Crowley fumed. _ Talking to my angel like that? _

“Oh goodness. You two are too much,” blushed the angel and the three of them skipped and hopped together.

Crowley’s teeth grinded together so tight, it may or may not have produced sparks.

“Crowley, come join us,” Aziraphale beckoned.

“I’m fine here,” Crowley muttered, stubbornly.

“I’d like a turn next,” piped in a mustachioed gentleman.

“And me!” voiced the goateed chap, eagerly.

They were _ all _eager.

Scales crept up Crowley’s shoulders and continued up his neck. His tongue, narrow and forked, flicked out irritably.

_ Be a shame, _ Crowley wondered, _ if that bearded gentlemen suddenly had a case of Two Left Feet. _

“Oh dear!” cried out the bearded gentleman as he stumbled forward. “My apologies! I...oh bother...I don’t know what’s come over me...I believe I should sit this out.”

Sit out he did, for when he looked down at his feet he found that not only were both his boots now more a left-shape, but his feet seemed to be of similar shape as well.

The following morning, he would find his feet to be quite normal and well-manicured, with no explanation of the odd hallucination.

_ And it would be terrible, _ Crowley continued, _ if that smooth-cheeked boy suddenly had a frog in his throat. _

The coughing fit that erupted from the young, spry gentleman lead him out of the ballroom promptly. 

The following morning he would feel much better, and also be the proud caretaker of three very chatty frogs.

_ And what a tragedy, _ Crowley yawned, _ if the mustachioed gentleman, the goateed man, suddenly remember they hated dancing! Just hated it. Why, what were they even doing here? _

“Goodness gracious, Hans, what are we doing?”

“Frederick, we cannot stay here. Apologies, Mr. Fell, we must be off.”

“Oh must you?” Aziraphale asked, his blonde brow furrowing in distress. “The dance is not even finished.”

But Hans and Frederick were already out the door before the angel had finished his protest.

The next morning they would awake to find their dancing shoes and gentlemen’s club memberships in the rubbish, Han having to chase down the garbage man to collect his prized possessions. 

“There’s...no one left…” Aziraphale said to the empty dance floor.

“Right!” Crowley chirped, clapping his hands together. “We are done then? Good. Off we go!”

But Aziraphale did not go.

He did not move at all. 

He stayed right where he was, in the center of the ballroom, which suddenly seemed a lot less extravagant and much more cavernous.

“But...the dance...”

“So? Let’s go do something else. Whatever you want, angel.”

Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged, he fidgeted with a bit of ruffle peeking out of his aged coat sleeve. 

_ And that pout…Merciless Satan…That pout… _

A small plump lip jutted out in the most pathetic of angelic ways, quivering slightly as if someone just told him the entire city of Paris ran out of crepes. 

“I...wish...to dance…”

Crowley’s eye twitched, and black scales started to crawl up his jawline. 

“Fuck it,” Crowley said, pushing himself off the wall. “I’ll gavotte with you. How hard can it be?”

Aziraphale’s pout almost disappeared.

It wavered for a moment, but held fast. 

“Gavottes are better with four or more persons.”

“A waltz then,” Crowley blurted, almost desperately, still staring at that lower lip, with just the right amount of rosy, and just the wrong sort of sweet.

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to both pout pitifully _ and _frown suspiciously. “You don’t like waltzes. In fact, you have made fun of every waltz I have ever brought you to.”

“Well, yeah, the lot of ‘em bounce around like drunken idiots most of the time, you can’t not make a lil fun of ‘em.” A serpentine smile slid onto his face and he took a few strutting steps towards the pouting angel. “But none of _ them _ have _ my _style, do they?”

Aziraphale dropped his gaze, giving a noncommittal shrug, but the barest hint of a smile cracking through his pitiful sulk. 

“Oi...angel…” Crowley cooed.

“What?” Aziraphale asked, daring to peek up with faux bashfulness.

“I got one question for you.” The demon slid in close, much closer than he had ever dared before. There was no gap for the holy spirit between them as he loomed over the angel like...well...a serpent over a delicious forbidden fruit.

His thin smile curled with charm. His cold hands found Aziprahale’s warm fingers and gathered them up. His forked tongue flicked briefly, tasting his own eagerness in the air, and his grin curled as Aziraphale’s pout melted into a warm smile meant only for him.

“Princsssipality Aziraphale, may I have the pleasure of dancssing the waltzss with you?”

Aziraphale huffed softly, but his fingers threaded with Crowley’s. “You are insufferable, foul fiend.”

“C’mon, angel,” Crowley sneered as he guided one of the angel’s hands to his narrow hip, the other over his rotting heart that had ached for thousands of years over the angel, “Admit it, you love it.” 

“I don’t,” Aziraphale denied, the lie showing in his cheeky grin and the miraculous adjustment to the phonograph that turned the jaunty concerto into a very slow, syrupy romantic waltz.

“My missstake,” Crowley teased.

“Is it?” Aziraphale asked. 

His smile was cute.

It was also far from innocent.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow us on tumblr!  
Writer: [SneakyBunyip](http://sneakybunyip.tumblr.com/)  
Artist: [FesteringSilence](http://FesteringSilence.tumblr.com/)  



End file.
